


Black Rope Ramble

by AngryGayFriend



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asexuality, Isolation, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryGayFriend/pseuds/AngryGayFriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has never been "in" a group, but orbits around them noncommittally, until he sees a poster for a certain social justice meeting. He quickly finds out arguing is the easiest way for him to be heard for the first time, but a relationship built on volatility can never end well. (now with awkward sex bonus chapter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slice Me Julienne

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished a training on suicide risk assessment (and trans 101 and asexuality 101) and I needed to get some feels out. I apologize for the relatively heavy SJ theory, but I wanted the chance to use my vocab list. All the titles for this fic and chapters are taken from "Kurosawa Champagne" by D. Brown. Not beta'd so sorry for the mistakes, sorry that I suck at staying consistent omg

Since Grantaire came to college, he knew it wouldn’t be easy. It was hard to make long-term friends when blackout drunk; he preferred not to be social with his art or with class assignments and socializing over sparring matches wasn’t exactly his thing. He had many casual acquaintances—the amount of extracurricular activities he participated in infrequently ensured that. Whether it was laughing at the bourgie Fencing kids, talking workout routines with the Boxers, or discussing musical tastes with one of the many people who’d stop and watch when he played guitar out on the college quad, Grantaire knew a lot of people. He was liked well-enough.

But no, if he had to be honest, he hadn’t exactly ever been asked out on a date. Or to lunch with someone. Or to be in someone’s study group.

He just managed to skirt around social groups and obligations like a professional loaner. He’s not sure how exactly it started, but despite the fact that he has talked people down from the random panic attacks or taken some dangerously drunk passerby to the University Health Services, the favors were never reciprocated. It was hardly even discussed. He was “nice” in a boring way that made sure everyone on campus knew him, but no one **knew** him.

He’s not entirely sure how it happened.

Well—that’s not entirely true. He wasn’t exactly quick to make friend groups and put himself out there in freshman year, was one of those “spoke when spoken to” types who learned the art of blending in between his actual art courses. He knew how to be what people expected, that fresh-faced, eager, and generically friendly guy. They didn’t want to hear about the mess of his life, that wasn’t what you put forward in freshman introductions.

So yeah, freshman year was awkwardly lonely. And by sophomore year, friend groups were formed and Grantaire kind of fell through the cracks. He half-expected it. It was fine.

Really.

Grantaire never really stuck around long in a club to “matter” in it. So maybe all the conversations he had were rants about problems or otherwise vapid, and maybe he never fully synthesized and expressed his interests in a meaningful way (like the walking trivia book he is), and maybe he’d get an awkward wave in a dining hall and the vague “We should hang out sometime” that were emptier than a latex balloon.

But he could deal.

Really.

He didn’t need a nucleus of friends or a proverbial family. So what if his RA didn’t notice when he wasn’t at an entryway meeting? So what if he spent more and more time drunk in his room where the buzz in the back of his head could be mistaken for a warmth in his chest—a “you are wanted” kind of a warmth, a “you belong” kind of warmth, a “you are loved” kind of warm fuzzy feeling that settled deep in his heart strings. Except Granaire didn’t get that kind of warmth. He got the warmth from a bottle and a blanket like some self-pitying cry baby and fuck if—

But really.

He’s fine.

Really.

It’s not like anyone would notice if he wasn’t anyways.

So he’s fine.

Damnit, he’s fine.

He’s not sure when it starts, maybe with a lot of particularly bad hangovers in a row or maybe he’s just really tired one day, but he knows sometimes it’s really hard to get out of bed. Not the tug of a comfortable and warm indent in a mattress pad with fresh new sheets, but iron clamps shackling him like it’s a half-broken gurney, the idea of his feet hitting floor is like stepping on half-broken bottles so he’d rather be restless in all the wrong ways in bed. It’s not a consistent progression. But sometimes he doesn’t leave it till 5PM. Sometimes he doesn’t leave it at all.

But he’s fine, that happens to everyone once in a while (or once a week, or every few days), right?

In a single, no one notices either way if he stays in his bed like that. So he’s fine.

 

It only changes when he's walking back from a longass studio class and notices the flyer, which he only notices because the face on it is so damn pretty. It should be illegal for actual Greek Gods and angels to exist, but the guy on this poster manages to be both at once and Grantaire needs to pause for the cause and evaluate this. Then he actually reads the text and he’s torn—it’s spouting pretentious social justice bullshit that he can hardly stomach, and he’s likewise absolutely repulsed by the idea and weirdly intrigued at the prospect of going to the actual meeting. He knows he doesn’t have class that day at that time. It’s in a bar, either way, and he’s not one to pass up a chance to get drunk.

\--

He ends up at the meeting a little tipsy in the first place—pregaming a meeting, that says something about his life. The café sells booze but also good espresso, and there’s two levels. He can hear politicking even from the entrance, when he walks into the warm café and sees the queer/hipster baristas. He orders some Irish Coffee before heading up the wrought-iron steps in the back of the place, coming up into the hardwood upper level. He slinks in the back—he’s good at not being noticed—and he sees a bunch of awkwardly close people, tight-knit friends leaning on each other in an intimacy he’s only ever witnessed, and the fearless leader from the poster standing at the head of the table in a strong and impassioned voice. He listens for a bit not to the words but to the pure magic that is pouring from this man’s mouth in his voice, it is strong and forceful in a way that makes Grantaire’s hair stand on end. He is absolutely electric, and he loves watching that tongue move.

It’s only when he listens to the words he’s reminded why his instincts said “Hell no” in the first place. It is all socialist bullshit and Grantaire cannot even believe how they can believe in these unrealistic ideals. He tries to listen, hopefully he’ll be persuaded by the arguments? But after the first 20 minutes he’s pretty sure he’s had enough, so he speaks without thinking, not expecting to be heard.

“A Slut Walk isn’t going to change anyone’s mind about ‘sluttiness.’”

 The room stills.

There are piercing blue eyes on him.

Grantaire’s tongue is caught up in his throat and he’s frozen in the awkward silence because really, he has never caused an awkward silence before in his life.

“And what leads you to believe that?” The blonde god says with a disbelieving twitch of his mouth, and Grantaire can’t tell if it’s a grimace or an amused smirk but it’s replaced with a look of pure, hard, unadultered marble. For the first time, Grantaire is listened to with a real intensity and not the feigned interest he’s always greeted like an old friend.

“I—,” He stutters a bit, still surprised at the turn of events, “I know that, um, people will just brand them as sluts and that’s all that’ll happen. They’ll be the ‘others,’ and people won’t think of them as people, but just a bunch of sex-crazed radicals. People will rationalize anything to stay complacent about this kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Misogyny?” Grantaire supplies.

The masterpiece of a person tilts his head in a vague consideration, “The entire point is fostering dialogue about sexual assault, and we’re culminating the march with a rally in the yard where everyone speaks about their experiences. We want to give the victims an avenue to have their voices heard, and at the actual rally they won’t be some Hegelian “Other;” they’ll be normal people explaining the problems they face every day because of this society’s misogyny.”

“Throwing Beauvoir ideas at them isn’t going to randomly convince people,” Grantaire counters before he can stop himself—he knows exactly what game they’re playing and he is not going to give this guy any power over the conversation based on who’s read more social theory, “besides, you’re tackling the disciplinary power structure of misogyny rather than the hegemonic which informs it.”

Blondie blinks, like he can’t really believe Grantaire doesn’t just agree with him right-fucking-now, licks his lips before letting that perfect brow furrow: “I disagree.”

He says it with such an indignation that fuck—Grantaire realizes, he’s actually being listened to.

They continue debating about a bunch of social justice bullshit Grantaire doesn’t actually believe in, but he’s talked to enough Women and Gender Studies people he can fake it till he makes it. Now and then someone else will chime in or defuse the argument enough for Enjolras—Grantaire finds out blondie is named—to continue his point and the planning of their activist group’s logistics. But Grantaire still prods whenever he’s able to. He is drunk on whiskey and power and fuck, FINALLY.

He might stumble home that night similar to many sad nights before it, but he is riding the emotional high like a Wizard of Oz hot air balloon.

 

He becomes the unwanted regular, analyzing and memorizing all the little ways Enjolras shows just how upset he is. He furrows his brow when he means to say, “I can’t believe you just said that.” He taps his fingers  when “You’re getting close to my argument’s hole, but I’m not sure exactly what it is yet.” He’ll brush his bangs from his face when he means to say, “Stop it with the classical allusions I don’t quite understand.” And Grantaire’s favorite, those few moments when he does indeed blow a giant hole in Enjolras’ argument, when his left eye twitches.

 It’s good conversation though, great even! He spends his free time reading up more on this stuff just so he can prove Enjolras how wrong his idealism is, and the sponge that is his brain loves the exercise. He’s got Foucault quotes on hand and notes on Aristotelian Ethics he’d never thought he’d actually use. And yeah, some days getting out of bed and staying sober enough to function is still a struggle, but if there’s a meeting at the Musain that evening, then he can keep his shit together for that long at least.

The Fall starts out slow too. It’s little comments Enjolras slips in with an exasperated air, they’re almost whispered “Don’t be stupid about this.” “I don’t know why you bother coming.” “Don’t you have anything better to do than heckle?” “Try being useful for once.”

Grantaire pretends not to hear it the first few times, but just as Enjolras listens to what Grantaire says, the opposite is a billion more times true. Grantaire practically hangs on his every word, and the rest of the group definitely take notice. He shows up at the meetings so much, he becomes organically inducted into the group of friends—Jehan scribbles sonnets on the crook of his wrist, while Courfeyrac hits on him and honestly it’s the first time that’s ever happened to Grantaire. Bahorel usually does bar fights, but ends up accompanying (or, following) Grantaire to boxing club and he becomes a regular, whereas it turns out Feuilly is in the art department too, and for once he doesn’t simply hole himself up in the studio but actually talks when they’re both in there. Combeferre turns out to be Enjolras’ platonic life partner—no really, they’ve defined the terms and all—and is glad Grantaire’s there overall but is a little wary how he prods at Enjolras so blatantly. He doesn’t see much of Joly as the Bio labs aren’t exactly close to the rest of campus, but he literally bumps into Bossuet on the way to his philosophy elective, and he likes that: bumping into people and feeling a genuine question when they ask how you’re doing.

But really, he knows all good things must come to an end. Because while he becomes “part of the group,” so does Enjolras’ side comments grow until they’re not so much muttered under his breath, as they are screamed across the room.

“Grantaire! If you bring up Niall Ferguson in this house, I will throw you out myself!”

“Now for some reason, Apollo, that doesn’t exactly convince me to your opinion,” he says with a sarcastic quirk of his eyebrow, drinking from a glass of wine.

“Be serious for five seconds! Colonists who have committed that which is tantamount to genocide have every reason to feel guilt in the collective consciousness!” It feels like an explosive night. Maybe it's the topic, he knows Enjolras' family is from a French ex-colony, or maybe they're just that fed up with each other. But Grantaire can already feel something is different about this argument, though he's not one to show his cards. 

“I strive for plain deficiencies in all that which is serious, but I will contest,” he says with a flourish of his hand, “that guilting people for being white may be the incorrect way to go about this subject.”

“Allowing a country like Britain to write off its atrocities in places such as India or The Netherlands and Africa,  allowing them to forget these actions gives them a pedestal from which to take a moral high ground and dictate international policies because ‘they’re European so they’re so great at human rights endeavors.’”

“But in cases where they do have stronger human rights records under recent administrations, do they not have the obligation to their Fellow Man, as you like to put it so eloquently all the goddamn time, to ensure that they likewise has rights, or would you say autonomy of the state, even if the state is shitty and spraying sarin on its people, is most important?”

“You’re missing the point entirely—“

“Please do explain then—“

 “You need to actually listen—“

“All I do is listen to you, Fearless Leader—“

“Don’t ever call me that, stop putting me on a pedestal—“

“You put yourself up there, we are just mere mortals who you deign to talk down to—“

“Grantaire!” He practically screams it, the room quieting down, “You are insufferable and useless! You are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying!” his voice cracks at the last syllable, and it sounds fractured and feminine and the room turns deathly silent at that. Enjolras flushes immediately, turning away from embarrassment or because he’s so disgusted he can’t even look at Grantaire? Who knows.

But the silence just aches. And Grantaire sits on the other side of the Musain, in awe. He knew speaking his mind was a risk. He knew being listened to came with its own set of consequences and he could never take back anything he said. But he never really expected this. Grantaire just stares at him for a few moments before finally rising out of seat, “You’ll see,” he says just above a whisper before heading down the heavy steps, not sparing a glance back at his friends or Enjolras.


	2. Uncurl My Nerves

They do not see Grantaire for three weeks.

They did not exactly expect him to show up immediately after that hot mess of a meeting, of course. They’re not stupid. Enjolras crossed the Rubricon then watched the bridge burn—Combeferre properly scolded him with a Look then Courfeyrac sussed him out for an hour straight. But after the first week they start to worry. While he was integrated into the group, he likewise was not in a lot of ways they were only now beginning to realize. For instance, no one had Grantaire’s number to even check if he’s alright. They find his room in the Facebook, but there’s no response when they knock and they’re not sure if he’s drunk or sleeping or even there, so they leave it be. They try a few other times that week, but when there’s no response, they figure he doesn’t want to speak them again. They can’t exactly blame him after Enjolras’ fuck up, but even Enjolras wishes he got the chance to actually apologize. By the time the 3rd week rolls around, they figure he’ll be fine. Everyone ends up fine, right?

Eponine, the only one who’s number he has because she stole his phone once, receives a text while she’s stiting with Jehan and Bahorel. She checks it casually, but spits out her coffee when she sees its from Grantaire.

_Can you stop by and bring me some clothes and TBurger?_

_If it’s not too much trouble of course._

_Sorry_

_like so sorry omg_

They all stare in awe, all wanting to guess it’s Grantaire but no one really wants to get their expectations too high.

“Should I ask him to make sure?” She asks, raking fingers through her hair.

“Well you have to ask him where he is, at least. You could slip the question in there,” Jehan offers off-handedly.

Bahorel shrugs, “It sounds a little too polite for Grantaire, if you ask me.”

Eponine huffs a sigh but taps out the message: _Where are you, Grantaire?_ Then asks, “Are you guys coming with me or planning on staying here?”

Bahorel smiles easily as he pulls his jacket back on, “Whether it’s Grantaire or not, I don’t have anything better to do, so might as well.”

“It’s definitely him, and so I’m definitely going with you two,” Jehan says.

On their way to Tasty Burger her phone dings with the response: _UHS infirmary, just ask the lady at the front desk._

 

The entire elevator ride up to the infirmary floor, Eponine’s heart is in her throat. She had bonded with Grantaire, telling him about her hopeless crush on Marius, alluding to her sordid family history, and while they might not see each other outside of meetings as much as she wished, she still cared. They all did.  So she gripped the paper burger bag white-knuckles, trying to convince herself he’s only in here for alcohol poisoning after a night on the town.

The receptionist is nice enough, despite the fact they must look like a sort of mafia—the short Eponine and her cropped hair flanked by Bahorel, who could easily win a Mr. Bear contest if he ever entered, and Jehan, who’s lanky but just as tall as Bahorel. She still gives them a warm smile and pages a nurse, who then leads them through the double-doors and into the proper infirmary, all linoleum white floors and airy windows at the end of the halls.

It’s not that big, as a university infirmary thankfully it usually doesn’t have that many patients at once, but the smaller size might just make it worse: oddly claustrophobic. They walk down to the room and she knocks twice before opening the door, allowing all three of them in.

They see Grantaire sitting up on the bed, facing the window that has a beautiful view of the city in the waning sun. He’s a bit silhouetted, but turns when they all walk in, offering a tentative smile. He looks paler and a bit thinner, as if he were the personification of exhaustion. His eyes are dark with heavy bags and he’s cut his hair down to a tight crew cut despite the more than 5 o’ clock shadow he’s sporting too. The haircut just doesn’t make sense on him, not when he has such beautiful curls. But no one comments on it. 

He looks like shit.

The nurse thankfully leaves them though.

“How are you doing?” Eponine’s the first to break the silence.

He shrugs, shifting on his bed to face them properly and crossing his legs, “Well I’m here, so that probably sums up most of it. I’m really sorry about asking you for this and all, but I really needed—“

“Grantaire, we’re glad you called,” Jehan’s lip quirks up but he looks on the verge of tears, climbing onto the bed with him and invading his space in familiarity, “Everyone’s been worried about where you were and what’s going on. We’re your friends, all of us, and we just wanted to make sure things were okay.”

Bahorel tugs the armchair in the corner closer and sits on its cheap plastic, “So spill. What’s been going on with you lately? You don’t have to explain the UHS shit, but just like catch us up on your life these past few weeks.”

Grantaire looks at him like a deer in the headlights as Eponine pushes the Tasty Burger into his hands and sets the clothes they raided from his room on the nightstand, finding another chair for herself and pulling it in to the circle.

Grantaire sighs, looking down at the bag and playing with its corners, suddenly losing his appetite now, “I’ve been around and all. Yaknow, classes and shit. Nothing too exciting, sorry.”

“Well I know you haven’t been boxing or I would’ve seen you. So how’s fencing or painting or whatever the hell else you do going?” Bahorel asks.

He shrugs slightly, feeling a lump in his throat like he’s about to cry or scream or something.

Jehan sighs through his nose and leans in a bit, “Consent?”

He only nods in response before Jehan pulls him into a tight hug, readjusting so he’s leaning against the headboard with Grantaire’s back to his chest, running fingers through his short hair. Jehan’s always been handsy, but when Grantaire’s drunk some nights he is too and others he shirks at even a shoulder tap, so Jehan’s gotten used to always asking before touching now.

He relaxes into the touch like an abused dog that’s not sure what to do with it at first but remembers how nice it feels sometimes. 

“Sorry that I didn’t really show up to boxing, as you all probably guessed I’ve been drinking a lot and it’s hard to box or fence when the room is constantly spinning,” he says with a wry smile that looks fragile as a Tennessee Williams play.

They spend the whole evening talking about boring things mostly, catching up on all the anecdotes he’s missed at the Musain—how Combeferre and Courfeyrac are probably going to be a _thing_ soon, how  Feuilly accidentally burned his entire mid-semester project (and his eyebrows) spraypainting while smoking, the drunk and awkward hookups that have happened since they last partied together. Eventually they all end up on Grantaire’s bed in various stages of cuddling, a tangle of limbs and smiles, and Grantaire feels a weird kind of warmth he isn’t used to and he really never expectd this. He thought they’d drop his shit off and be on their way, but it does seem like they do actually care. Maybe. His brain won’t let him just accept that idea right now, but just having that idea, just considering the possibility makes him happy enough.

Finally, visiting hours are officially over and they disengage the cuddle pile and get ready to leave.

“So when are you going to be back in your dorm?” Eponine asks as she grabs her bag.

Grantaire scratches his shoulder and thinks for a moment, “Um, so, I um, probably won’t.”

She tilts her head confused, “What do you mean? They’re not going to let you come back?”

He shrugs, eyes darting away to the floor, “I’m getting, um, Ad Board’d, and they said they’ll probably keep me here another week or so to let me finish detoxing and withdrawal and all from the alcohol, and then, um, send me on my way I guess,” He gets quieter as he continues, not quite wanting to admit it to himself. The Administrative Board getting involved always meant bad news, but he’d expected they’d ask for him to take time off once they reviewed his case. He wasn’t exactly a model student on a good day, let alone under the wake of everything that had transpired these past few weeks.

“You got Ad Board’d for the booze?” Bahorel asks because the rest of them are too afraid to broach the subject.

Grantaire shakes his head, “Mental health stuff.” He sighs and rubs his eyes, covering his face for a second, “Suicide stuff.”

The room is tense and awkward. They let Grantaire take a moment to himself before they continue the conversation. “Do you want the others to stop by?” Jehan asks, “or do you want to keep it between just us?”

He looks up finally, “If they want to, it’s fine.”

“Of course they want to Grantaire, we’ve all been worried sick about you,” Eponine says somewhere between frustrated and concerned.

He nods and offers a shitty excuse of a smile, “Then I’ll see you all later some time.”

They’re nice enough to leave it at that and see themselves out. Grantaire does not sleep that night.

\--

He doesn’t expect news to travel so quickly, because the next day, Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta all pay him visits in the morning and later that afternoon Feuilly and Bahorel again stop by too. He likes the company and it keeps him from worrying too much over all this. He’s detoxed in the official sense, but UHS wanted to hold onto him to make sure mental health was no longer a major concern after said detox. Most of the group stop by between classes, and it keeps him mind happily off the shit show to follow his release from the infirmary. He notices that Enjolras has conspicuously failed to show up, until the second to last day. He tells himself it doesn't bother him.

He’s so used to people stopping by, he doesn’t bother looking up when the nurse knocks and opens the door, electing to sit by the window and sketch the great view he’s got right now. He still hasn’t shaved—they’re not keen on giving him a razor—so he’s basically got a beard now, which he finds he’s not entirely averse to. He looks better, still shitty and sleep deprived, but not the miserable mess Eponine, Jehan, and Bahorel saw him the first day.

Enjolras takes in the sight of him for a moment, standing in the open doorway, before clearing his throat.

Grantaire glances up, but as soon as their eyes meet he’s looking away, back at the sketch. His entire posture shifts, crowds the window and hunches shoulders, suddenly anxious.

Enjolras stands there, sun from the wide window hitting his beautiful features and making his hair look even more golden, his tan complexion more vibrant.

The silence just hurts, but Enjolras doesn’t think it’s his place to break it.

“What is it?” Grantaire asks, pencil against his pad like he wants to sketch again but something’s holding him back.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

“I didn’t do it because of you, you know. So if you’re trying to get over your guilt, it’s not like you gave me the knife or something.” He sounds dismissive.

Enjolras fidgets, moves to take off his coat then leaves it on like he’s not sure if it’s okay. “I said horrible things to you and regardless of how I thought you would or wouldn’t react, they were still horrible and I’m sorry. I took your arguments personally and couldn’t distance myself emotionally from our debates and I didn’t meant to take it out on yo—“

“You meant everything you said, Enjolras. It’s fine.”

“I was angry and caught up in the moment, and the fact that you always heckled me just to heckle and argue—I thought it was ridiculous someone so intelligent could have the opinions you do.”

“I have no opinions,” Grantaire says finally looking up, “Like you said, I just like to argue.”

“Why?” Enjolras raises his voice before he can think better of it.

Grantaire just sighs, turning back to the window, “Because you listened when I argued. You cared about what I had to say. I mattered when I was heckling.”

“You always matter. Everyone matters.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t want to get into this. I’m fucked up, your reassurances aren’t going to magically make it better. Thanks for the effort though.”

Enjolras sighs and finally takes off his coat, like if he can make it clear he’s staying then his intentions will seem more legitimate. “Look," he starts seriously, "I think you’re amazing Grantaire. You’re a walking encyclopedia and you’re funny and you’re interesting and the fact that you argue just to argue, that you can debate any side like that is amazing in of itself. But you don’t use that for anything, you use that to simply be argumentative.”

“Hence I am useless?”

“Hence I got upset,” Enjolras corrects as he grabs a chair and pulls it over till he’s right in front of Grantaire.

“Hence you’re here apologizing,” Grantaire says slowly with a fleeting look up at Enjolras. “It doesn’t matter either way, I’m leaving tomorrow evening.”

“Leaving?”

“I’m going to be taking next semester off and all. 6 months, so a semester and the summer.”

Enjolras nods slowly. Grantaire snorts at that, “No it’s not voluntary, but yeah it’s probably for the best.”

The blond lets out the breath he was holding and thinks carefully before speaking, “What’s home like? I mean, are you going back there?”

Grantaire snorts again, “You’re wondering if it’s a good environment for me to recover or something? Trying to play concerned therapist?” his gaze shift out the window again, “Parents died, sister’s in a foster home. So in the strictest sense, I don’t exactly have a home right now.”

Enjolras’ eyes flash with concern, “Seriously? You haven’t been able to set anything up?”

“I haven’t seen much of the point,” he shrugs, “I mean, I’m not sure I really want to come back here yet, seems more trouble than it’s worth.”

 “What do you mean?”

Grantaire puts the sketchpad down finally, “Because I’m a mess here.”

There’s a silence after that, then Enjolras leans in a bit, “I will respect your decisions, but everyone who cares about you is here and will definitely miss you. And I want you to be happy, and you seemed to be at least moreso happy when you were with us in the Musain, excepting our arguments. So, I hope you’ll reconsider.”

Grantaire scratches at the back of his neck, and Enjolras mouth forms a tight line seeing his hair so short.

“May I ask?” He says tentatively.

“I got really drunk and cut it off with a razor I had. Scratched up my head pretty good, but it’s alright. Then I took the razor to my arms. Then I woke up here.”

He doesn’t look shocked, only nods slowly.

“It wasn’t that night, if you were wondering. That night when you yelled at me, I just got really drunk. And then I kept drinking pretty consistently for maybe a week or two, till. Till this all happened,” He says distantly before smiling in self-deprecation, “And then exciting detox.”

Enjolras nods slowly again, then speaks in a low tone, “I did something very similar a long time ago.”

Grantaire blinks dumbly at him. He did not expect the golden boy to be anything but just that. He’s not sure what to say because he knows this is a lot for Enjolras. Whereas Grantaire overshares in dry humor, Enjolras keeps his cards very close to his chest.

“Back when I didn’t know if I’d be able to get hormones or surgery or anything, I thought it’d be the easiest way. Except I took the razor to my chest, but that’s not something to describe really,” he half-shrugs, but his eyes are trained on the floor.

Grantaire is forgets how to use his mouth for a moment then asks just above a whisper, “Are you—“

“Transgender, yes.”

Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to nod slowly.

“It’s fine, or at least, it’s manageable. And I’m fine with it now. But I wasn’t then, so I definitely don’t know what you’re going through but I have some understanding of the feeling,” he says as empathetically as he can manage which isn’t actually all that much, but he is trying. “I’m not talking to my parents, which isn’t the same as your situation either but,” he shrugs slightly, then lets out a chuckle that’s more like a grimace, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to share that much. Just, that I am sorry you have to deal with the Ad Board’s bullshit on top of what’s going on in your head, and I’m sorry that in some part I triggered it all.”

Grantaire just nods again not quite sure to do with the information. Enjolras had always been this inhuman with his shit together before now, “Thanks.”

Enjolras tries to offer a reassuring smile, but there’s too much pity in it.

Then it drops off with a look of realization.

Then he breaks out into a grin, like he just had a eureka moment.

“I have an apartment off-campus. Fuck, why didn’t I think of this before, you should come stay with me.”

Grantaire blinks this time, “Um. That is a complete 180 of our relationship, we don’t get along, remember?”

Enjolras sighs with that annoyed look that Grantaire really loves on him, “I told you: it’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that you’re an argumentative bastard sometimes. But as long as you don’t toss your underwear around everywhere, and don’t try to rile me up so much like we both know you do, I think we’d be fine. I don’t think I’m a bad roommate.”

“You’re actually serious?”

“I never joke about these things.”

“You never joke, period.”

He sighs again but it’s more fond this time, “Look, if random roommates can be paired up for on-campus housing, why can’t we be paired up for my cheaper apartment? It keeps you close to everyone this way too.”

Grantaire had to admit it was a pretty sweet deal. But he didn’t want to jump into this without informing Enjolras of the consequences.

“You know, I’m not just going to magically get better when they let me leave. I’m still going to be a fuck up who’s going to want a drink all the damn time, and I’m going to get depressive and it’s not going to be pretty.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, “Damnit Grantaire, I know.”

He stares at him a moment with a quiet expression before saying, “You do, don’t you?”  

“Misery’s better with company?” Enjolras suggests, hoping it sounds as smooth as he intended.

Grantaire cracks a smile, “We’re sharing an apartment, we’re sharing misery, we might as well just share a bed at that rate.”

Enjolras lets out the tiniest smile, “We’ll see.”

Grantaire turns bright red at that but Enjolras just smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwing in Enjolras as trans is something I had in my mind but was unsure how to express without a bit of a word vomit on his part. But I feel like these conversations tend to happen in word vomits so it makes sense kinda sorta maybe.


	3. Ursula Minor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enj is similar to Derrida in this, as coming from a "little black and Arab Jew" family who considers himself very European descent. it doesn't make much of a difference just btw because I guess I can't not fuck with race idk idk  
> this is my happy ending for my own mental well-being because these two kiddos are slowly ruining my life  
> edit: wow I suck at consistency. I am trying to edit and make this not suck right now...

When Enjolras comes by the next evening, he’s not sure if yesterday was a sign of a mutual crush or just his wishful thinking. As they walk back in a relaxed silence, he’s still wondering if he made the right decision after all.

His arms are still tightly bandaged though the stitches need to be removed soon anyways, and he has explicit doctor’s orders not to move heavy things for the time being. So when he gets to his single room all the way in the campus quad that is buried in the suburbs away from class buildings in the yard, he’s so grateful everyone has showed up to help him move.

From goofing off, of course it takes longer with them all together but it makes it a fun transition rather than a sad ending, and even as they all complain when they’re hauling boxes and bedding and art supplies up Enjolras’ 4 flights of steps, it is entirely worth it. They don’t finish till too damn late to function, so they settle for pizza and a night in, all curled up and Grantaire is finally starting to feel some semblance of wanted when Enjolras’ head finds its way to his shoulder when they’re all dozing off.

 

The next day is when Grantaire actually unpacks and gets a full tour of the apartment. Enjolras shows him a bit of his room—where Grantaire notices a poster of _Liberty Leading the People_ by Delacroix and an Algerian and French flag in the corner along with its soul-crushing neatness—and the kitchen which is desperately understocked. Grantaire’s room which served as Enjolras’ office/storage space and yeah, it’s tiny by a lot of accounts but Grantaire isn’t going to whine about that.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he says as he opens up the box with bedding.

“You don’t have to,” Enjolras says as he deals with a heavier box, “Really, I wouldn’t have offered if I just expected something out of it.”

“Well let me at least cook or something. I can handle making sure you don’t die of malnutrition or sleep deprivation.”

Enjolras just huffs a laugh in response, so Grantaire takes it as permission to do so.

When he left, they made it quite clear he was expected to hold down a paying job during his medical leave semester if he ever wanted to come back, so Grantaire looks for one so he at least has the option of applying for re-enrollment, but also immerses himself in art and cooking as much as possible. When he isn’t painting portfolio work (which he’s never had time to make before!) or procrastinating on his laptop, he’s copying cook book recipes in bookstores or walking to the weird vegan market whose staff is slowly but surely learning his name. He figures one of the reasons Enjolras sucks at eating variety is because of his damn dietary restrictions (vegan, gluten-free, AND a nut allergy), but he tries to take it in stride.

Enjolras truly never expected anything from Grantaire in return except the ability to be quiet and let him work, but he does appreciate coming home from classes and commitments to good food for once. The first time Grantaire hears the Velcro of Enjolras’ binder a few days into living together, he feels like he’s intruding. It’s oddly intimate, a simple sound that holds a lot of meaning, and he wants to ask but he knows that’s crossing a shitton of lines. It’s also odd seeing Enjolras walk around in just a t-shirt and boxers, two little bumps on his chest that seem so foreign to the Enjolras he knows. But if he really wanted to hide it, he could have. Grantaire notices the pains Enjolras goes to be stealth—from the phone arguments Enjolras has with people at home that Grantaire overhears through the thin walls to the simple way he wears his jeans more on his butt than on his hips or waist—and the fact that he disclosed his trans status with Grantaire to begin with means a lot. So he doesn’t push it. He knows he has privileged information and trust to begin with.

So they fall into this weirdly domestic and intimate routine, which lessens only slightly when Grantaire gets a job at the local art museum. Still, Grantaire cooks for the two of them and pokes Enjolras awake when he falls asleep in the living room while doing work. They go to the Musain for meetings and argue, but now they walk together there and back and both are more careful about their words. It actually does wonders for the friend group and earlier tensions have subsided and everyone manages to somehow get closer.

So Grantaire is doing good. Most days. There are still times when he calls in from work because really, he cannot get out of bed that day. He considers just calling a little victory because there are worse days when he can’t even manage that much. When he knows where the scissors are or the razor and he knows how easy it would be and how much his chest and head just hurt in the emptiest way. Some days he wakes up completely disengaged from his own personhood and he’s not sure how anyone manages to put up with that, lives like that, and he doesn’t know if it will get better. He’s unconvinced. He’s living off Enjolras’ hospitality despite being this dead weight in everyone’s lives and really, who is he to inflict that on such amazing people? He’s no one.

When Enjolras comes home and notices the distinct lack of cooked kale smell, that’s his first indication he’s on damage control duty. The first day it happens, he tries asking if there’s anything he can do from the doorway, where he watches Grantaire just sit against the headboard with silent tears rolling down his face, not even acknowledging Enjolras’ presence. He sits on the bed tentatively, and touches Grantaire’s shoulder so carefully. Grantaire’s eyes flutter shut as he seems to fixate on the touch, so Enjolras had pulled him into a hug at that point. They ended up falling asleep together.

So that’s his usual tactic now when, he’ll come into Grantaire’s room and sit next to him on the bed and hug him or gently adjust so his head is in Enjolras’ lap, and run soft fingers against his scalp because words wouldn’t cut it. Sometimes Grantaire pulls away and locks himself in the bathroom for a bit, only coaxed out later when he really was too hungry to function. Sometimes Grantaire falls asleep and wakes up much better. Sometimes he won’t sleep the whole evening and Enjolras will be pulled away by classes. Infrequently, Enjolras will skip those though and they’ll spend the evening and morning and evening in bed, and Enjolras isn’t exactly sure what he’s doing those days, but it feels right.

Their entire friend group is convinced they’re dating but refuse to say anything about it really. While Combeferre and Courfeyrac do end up dating after much match-making and some liquid courage, Combeferre and Enjolras are still platonic life partners and finally get coffee with this subject in mind one day.

“So, how’s living with Grantaire?” He asks casually after he orders his London Fog at a small cafe halfway between the College and Boston. It’s far enough off campus they’re not likely to bump into anyone they know, and they mark their vegan options very helpfully.

Enjolras shrugs, “Fine. I can’t say if he’s doing well or not, but as far as I understand it he’s better in a lot of ways than he was before.”

“And how do you feel about living with Grantaire?”

Enjolras furrows his brow at that, “like I have a roommate?”

Combeferre chuckles as he pushes his glasses up on his nose, “I mean, do you enjoy having him around? Is it embarrassing? Fun? Terrifying? Annoying?”

“All of the above? It’s good, if that’s what you’re asking. I like his presence in the apartment, it’s good.”

“Yes, but do you like **him?”**

“I like him, yes. Or I wouldn’t have offered to live with him in the first place.”

He smiles fond and amused, “Alright, I’m going to sound like Courfeyrac right now, but do you like him romantically and/or sexually?”

Enjolras laughs, “That did not sound like Courfeyrac at all and you know it.”

“It’s the thought that counts. The sentiments of that question are mostly his.”

He smiles but looks out the window as he thinks on an answer, “I believe would like to be closer to him physically, yes. But I don’t think that’s possible right now and I don’t want to complicate his life.”

Combeferre nods vaguely, unconvinced it would be a complication but too nice to say so. “Forgive me, if this sounds insensitive, but have you and he talked about…?”

He shakes his head, drinking his too weak coffee, “It’s not my place to ask him.”

“But he knows…?”

“I told him when I asked him to move in and all. So far, it doesn’t seem to have changed anything,” he looks at his friend with a bit of a smile but they both know how much of that is a real relief to Enjolras.

“Any idea why?”

He tilts his head questioningly.

“Enjolras, do you still refuse to acknowledge the sexual tension of the Musain when you two are at the meetings? I can only imagine what it is like in that apartment.”

He blushes, even his ears turning red, “He hasn’t mentioned it so I don’t mention it. I don’t know what he thinks of it.”

“So ask?”

He scrubs his hands over his face, because really it should be that simple but it’s also entirely not.

\--

He does ask eventually, when they’re curled up on the couch not touching, watching Jon Stewart (because of course they fucking are) and finishing up the vestiges of dinner.

He's unsure how to broach the subject delicately, maybe it’s the recent shot of T making horny right the fuck now or maybe he’s just fed up dancing around this so much but he just goes for it, “Grantaire. I really enjoy your company and I think we already display many behavioral patterns commonly seen in couples, and I would like to introduce a physical element to our relationship with further expressions of intimacy and likewise exclusivity in said elements.” He really does have a whole speech for just why this would be the best idea ever, but he summarizes it at only that.

Grantaire kind of inhales his food, chokes a little, puts the plate down and fidgets. “Um, you mean you’re asking for us to date? With kissing and sex and things like that?”

Enjolras nods, not the way he’d ever phrase it but essentially yes. “Thoughts?”

Grantaire shifts again, “You know I’m kind of shitty at being a real human being. I don’t think putting emphasis on a person like me in your life would be a good thing.”

“You already occupy a major part of my life and it’s been positive overall.”

“No guarantee it’ll continue to be. I mean, we still fight and shit. It’s still not the prettiest.”

“But I like that aspect. I like that we challenge each other,” Enjolras is starting to reconsider bringing this up.

Grantaire nods slightly, “I do too. But…”

“But?”

He sits forward, elbows on his knees and eyes trained on the floor as he thinks, “I’m not really interested in physical intimacy? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that probably makes me sound so shitty. I’m sorry that I can’t even do that right,” he’s starting to ramble because holy shit he never expected to have this conversation.

Enjolras shifts closer and leans forward to, “It’s okay. It’s alright, nevermind I mentioned it. You don’t sound shitty and there’s no right way to do this. Just forget about it,” he says before grabbing their plates and heading to the kitchen just so he has something to do.

Grantaire grabs his wrist lightly in panic mode, “Wait no! That’s not what I meant, I didn’t mean no to dating I just meant no to like, blowjobs and shit. I just don’t think of people that way? I guess?” He sighs and lets go, “Sorry, this is coming out all wrong and ridiculous—“

“May I kiss you right now?”

Because consent is sexy.

Grantaire stares up at him a bit dumbfounded but nods timidly. Enjolras sets the plates down and kneels in front of the couch, hands gently taking Grantaire’s face and leaning in. He kisses him with just a press lips first, pulls away to gauge his reaction—he doesn’t look like he’s averse so that’s a good sign—before going in and kissing deeper, tongue pressing against his lips for entrance, and Grantaire relents, and this is kind of more than Enjolras could imagine, actually getting to kiss Grantaire.

He pulls away a little harshly and Enjolras immediately feels like he’s done something wrong.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, their faces still too close to really look at one another properly, “that, um. Not really. Not a hard no, but not really my thing.”

He nods, wanting to just hold Grantaire but also get the fuck out of the room and die from embarrassment in privacy.

“But I like you,” he continues, “I like you so fucking much and I know people don’t like to use this word, but I kind of really love you too and dating would be awesome. And we can try different physical things along the way and see how they go? If it’s all okay with you.”

He nods, stunned that this is actually happening. He’s not sure it’ll necessarily work out, but “I’m willing to try. No guarantees, but I’m willing to give it a shot if you are.”

Grantaire gives him a shy smile, kisses his cheek then grabs the plates himself and heads to the kitchen.

Enjolras isn’t exactly sure what the fuck just happened.

\--

They’re sitting in the Musain celebrating their three month anniversary. Their hands are easily interlocked on Grantaire’s thigh, thumbs rubbing over knuckles and pulse points as they talk with their friends who have just gotten back on campus. They’d tried kissing and making out but it really doesn’t seem to be Grantare’s thing, so it’s very infrequent. The whole sex thing was likewise tried and likewise vetoed and likewise remedied with dates right out of a romantic comedy thereafter which made Enjolras blush, so while he does get frustratingly horny, he also does have the best boyfriend ever so he can’t complain too much. They cuddle though Enjolras usually instigates because it comes more like an afterthought to Grantaire, but he assures it’s not because he doesn’t actually want to. They hold hands and kiss foreheads and cheeks and shoulders and a few pecks here and there, and while it’s never what either of them imagined, it’s good. It works. They argue but they also work.

So they’re all amicably talking at the Musain when Grantaire’s phone beeps and he checks it while still smiling with Jehan over Baudelaire, until his expression immediately shifts and Enjolras feels him tense.

“What is it?” He asks, leaning his chin on his shoulder and pressing their thighs together, because it seems like a bit of a big deal.

“Um, my decision email.”

Everyone quiets at that, eyes  turning on him intently yet its inherently awkward.

He laughs softly, “It feels like high school all over again. Um, I guess I’ll open it?”

“You don’t have to do it here if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to,” he says as he taps the screen, eyes scanning for a moment.

It’s a very tense moment.

He squeezes Enjolras’ hand who squeezes back, then sighs through his nose.

“I’m re-enrolling this semester.”

Enjolras really can’t help it and kisses him with a sunlike smile. Grantaire lets himself be kissed and buys everyone drinks that night.

He’s not quite happy, but some days he’s pretty damn close.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blrrrrrp. Why do I always write so much omg i have actual homework to do  
> Grantaire ended up asexual, idk I didn't plan it.  
> I just wanted bebes to be happy, so sorry if it feels a bit of a cop-out ending, I just needed one.  
> this fic just seemed very all over the place in continuity of setting/facts/things, which I wouldn't have minded if it was quick oneshot but because it ended up being fucking long I'm like "shmrrrrp" about it.  
> I made a [tumblr](http://www.angrygayfriend.tumblr.com) and y'all should give me prompts please? maybe?


	4. Bonus: Forgettable Boxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #awkwardsex set after establishing the relationship when they're both living together. Likely a few more months after my cop-out ending. Not beta'd yo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: suicide attempt, self-mutilation, gender dysphoria  
> Can I just apologize for all of this? I don't even know what was going on. I just thought since I established Enj as trans in this and established R as ace, the idea of them having sex should be explored. I am not good at writing smut at all. At all.  
> Also, I didn't really have a good beginning/middle/end planned, really this is just quickly a'splorin' these two beautiful weirdos doing beautiful weird things to each other.  
> or something. ehrmagehrd. (edit: finding so many typos tellement gêné )

Enjolras knew he hadn’t won the body lottery early on. Despite everyone who told him otherwise, who stuffed him into dresses and pants with impractical pockets and told him to show some skin—but not too much! Despite all those people, he knew there was a major “NOPE” hiding somewhere in his hips, and it took him a while to figure out what that meant exactly, but once he did, there was no stopping him.

Well, except maybe his parents.

He knew they wouldn’t be on board with the whole idea to let him chop off his breasts and pull out his uterus and vagina, so he didn’t bother coming out to them. He told his friends and scolded his teachers and that was that. School was a safe-haven of validation because like fuck was he going to let it be anything but, when he had to come home to such a hostile and problematic environment. Combeferre let him ship binders to his house, and Courfeyrac took him shopping so the B-line to the men’s department wouldn’t be nearly so awkward, and yeah, it sucked living this double life shit, but he made it work like a Project Runway episode.

 Though when news trickled back home about his “condition,” he can’t say he was necessarily surprised. But despite all the mental gymnastics to prepare him for the moment, it was still a whole lot of horrible.

He was grounded, his room raided. Usually his parents left for work early before the bus came, both were Wall Street types with 5AM commutes, but they took time off just for the occasion: his boy clothes and binders were all trashed, they were disgusted with his packers, and used it as evidence that he was some perversion of a person.

Enjolras doesn’t like to think of himself as a crier, but yeah that was pretty traumatic.

He was on lockdown grounding after that, always had a member of the house staff at his side, always in bed early, his parents set up monitoring on his phone that his text messages likewise went to their inboxes too and same with email. They set up remote monitoring of his computer screen. Really, it was everything.

The tipping point was when they suggested he ta  a gap year after high school for heavy-duty (conversion) therapy and that he go to Columbia, just a short train ride away from their big New Jersey almost-mansion.

They had said it casually over dinner, like it was decided. Like it was obvious. Like he’d agree.

He politely asked to be excused, headed up to his room to get ready for bed. He was always a night-shower kind of person, and his mother would always make a comment if his legs weren’t absolutely smooth every day, asking whether or not he was trying to be a man again. He took the razor, flipping it over in his hands a few times, slipping the razor blade out with a little difficulty and snap of plastic. Grabbing another and doing the same. And another, and another, until he’d dismantled the pack of disposables systematically, laying out each razor on the side of the tub. He found extra towels and sits at the back of the tub as the shower kept going. He didn’t want it directly on him to stop clotting.

He wasn’t sure at the time just what he wanted--whether the point was to actually kill himself and get it over with or really just to get those damn sacks off his chest. He took one towel, rolled it up, and bit down, leaned back against the porcelain, took up the first razor. He eyed it, twirled it between his fingers, took some calming breaths.

This was the only way out he could see.

He knew it wouldn’t be pretty, but he didn’t need perfect. He just needed a flat chest.

His eyes fluttered closed, he bit down hard, and put steel to skin.

\--

Enjolras finishes in the shower—he had always been a night-shower kind of person—and dries off quickly before stepping back into his room. He knows Grantaire’s there, he asked him to wait there. Usually he’ll change in the bathroom, but for some reason he’s not quite sure of, he doesn’t this time. He just walks into his room, towel awkwardly held up trying to be decidedly not feminine about it but not comfortable showing the scars on his chest. Grantaire’s not paying the most attention, curled up on the bed with Enjolras’ laptop looking up buzzfeed articles. It’s domestic and comforting.

Enjolras pauses, unsure if he should get dressed or what right now, but then he sits on the bed with Grantaire, hand finding its way to his.

“Hey,” he starts, unsure where he’s going with it.

“Hey you,” he says giving Enj’s hand a squeeze, eyes still trained on petite cats.

“If you’re okay with trying it, I was wondering if we could…” could what? Could fuck? Could grope each other? Grind down on the bed but no penetration of any sort for either? Could chastely kiss till morning? He never knows what Grantaire is okay with that day and he’s not even sure what he’s okay with it now that they’ve gotten past awkward kisses and his body wants more.

Grantaire stills his scrolling and glances at Enjolras, “Yeah…” he stars slowly, because they’ve talked about this before and he knows it’s a big deal in a lot of ways. “Yeah, if you’re down with it, I’m down with it. If you’re sure and all. And, as usual, I’m good with trying things out but..”

“But consent,” Enjolras nods.

“Consent is sexy, so I’ve heard,” he says playfully.

Enjolras bites his lip, “It’s not,” his eyes focus on the corner of the laptop, “It’s not pretty, I guess. I wasn’t necessarily nice to my body back in high school.”

Grantaire just gives his hand another squeeze, “I’m not uncomfortable with that. I mean, I’m not exactly repulsed or ambivalent about sex and all, but if I say no, it’s not because of your body at all. I’m not really interested in bodies in general. Fuck, that was supposed to sound reassuring—um. My ambivalence and mixed feelings are equal opportunity? Uh..”

Enjolras laughs and leans down to press his lips to Grantaire’s temple, rewarding him for the effort at least. Then their mouths just kind of find each other and Enjolras is pretty enthusiastic, but to Grantaire’s it’s like a head massage—not horrible or even bad, but decidedly weird. But it makes Enjolras happy so he’s okay with it now and then.

The laptop is put aside, petite cats will have to wait, as they fall back on the bed, but then Enjolras pulls away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. This isn’t about you or anything but I was just wondering, um…”

Grantaire sits up, “Whatever you need.”  

Enjolras takes a steadying breath, still holding the towel tightly. He then speaks just above a whisper, “Can we turn the lights off?”

Usually, this would be an entirely awkward turn of events, but Grantaire gets it—as much as a cisgender person could, at least—and easily complies, kissing Enjolras’ cheek after because seriously, _it’s okay._ He whispers back against his cheekbone, “Are you still sure?”

Enjolras looks at him with that fierce passion, “Absolutely,” and yes, his hand is shaking as he does it but he lets the towel down and he’s back to kissing Grantaire.

Grantaire feels two bumps pressing against his chest, feels Enjolras’ breath through them, but he’s not sure what’s okay so he just asks, “What do you want me to do? What do you want me to touch? Just let me know.”

“Everywhere,” He mutters as his hands curl in Grantaire’s hair, scratches as his scalp, “Vaginal penetration aside, everywhere else is fair game.”

Grantaire’s watched his fair share of sex scenes—even a full porno once but that was a surreal experience he doesn’t like to revisit—but this is his first _time_ , and Enjolras knows it, so he figures he’ll start with the shit he’s seen in movies and let Enjolras correct him as they go along. So his hands roam, feeling the curve of Enjolras’ back, who’s hands are gently making their way under Grantaire’s thin t-shirt too, until ignoring his breasts seems like just that, obvious and awkward ignoring on his part, and he tentatively gives one a squeeze.

And holy shit, Enjolras doesn’t have a nipple.

Enjolras has started working his way down Grantaire’s jaw to his neck, so he’s able to steal a quick glance down, and yep, no nipple on that breast. They’re both scarred and the skin’s pulled a little weird in places, one seems bigger than the other but he’s not sure if that’s natural or again from the apparent wood chipper his chest has been through. It’s not pretty in the least and Grantaire sees why he was reluctant, but it’s Enjolras’. Grantaire might not be a fan of male or female or both or neither chests, but if he’d have to pick out his favorite chest it would be Enjolras’. There’re beads of water or maybe sweat that have trickled down in between them, objectively looking amazing on his cinnamon skin, and while Grantaire doesn’t have the urge to just lick that, bite down, make him moan and writhe under him, he can see—objectively—how someone might, because seriously Enjolras is beautiful. The heaving of his sternum as he breaths is beautiful, the quiet moan he hears right against his ear is beautiful, the flutter of his thick eyelashes against Grantaire’s cheek, his thin fingers running down Grantaire’s side, that ass—all beautiful.

He feels his partner’s gaze, so he pulls away a bit, making eye contact, “Still okay?” It both challenges him to say no but also shyly expects it. He knows his chest is grotesque so he expects the rejection, but it’s also the only body he’s got so he’s defensive of it.

Grantaire smiles, places both hands on Enjolras’ cheeks and kisses him this time, “Great.”

\--

The sex is awkward as a motherfucker. They’re both trying to find out their limits—Enjolras said everything but vaginal but he’s still trying to figure out if he’d feel better on top or bottom and how to facilitate it given anatomy, and with Grantaire just about everything could be a new-found limit in disguise.

They spoon after blowing and fingering one another. They tried to make it all passionate and serious, but when they’re still feeling out each other’s edges, it ended in more giggles. When Grantaire came, he wasn’t exactly wrecked and moaning; it was more like “Oh. So that’s what it feels like when you do that. Hanh.” He has decided him coming isn’t actually the greatest thing in existence and it’s been knocked down to Priority 2 on the list during sex. He doesn’t mind making Enjolras a priority. Like, ever. Especially on this, though. He enjoy the opportunity of being able to just worship Enjolras unabashedly in a way that makes him happy.

Enjolras on the other hand is very loud and likes to show off his vocab list, and it makes Grantaire giggle when he’s just a rambling mess about the sex-industrial complex and how he sympathizes with Grantaire in feeling awkward and the inundation with sex in our society and how there needs to be much less heteronormativity and—it’s good. He thinks it’s hilarious and cute and great and it’s good.

After that first time, a lot of negotiation happens, the laptop is brought out and they make an excel sheet about their opinions on everything, and Enjolras is relieved that while Grantaire’s pretty sure he’d never be comfortable tongue-in-vagina eating him out ever and he’s still unsure if he’s down for putting his dick in Enjolras’ orifices right now, there’s still a good chunk of other interesting things that are on the table, including a few kinkier things.

“You listed rope on the shared google doc,” he says over coffee a few days later in a café that’s awkwardly public but Enjolras isn’t good with social mores any day

Grantaire chokes on his lemonade for a second then recomposes, “Indeed I did.”

“Any strong opinions on who does the tying up?”

“You know I never have strong opinions on these things,” he adds after a beat, “Besides for yes or no, of course.”

“Of course,” he confirms, “If you practice the knots, I’d like to bottom for that,” he says it so matter-of-factly Grantaire once against chokes.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Their sex life is okay. One the rare occasion Enjolras (never Grantaire now, he’s fighting to stay sober every day) gets drunk enough to tell Courfeyrac, Courf scolds them for being so crappy at it. He’s amazed that despite the sexual tension when they’re arguing about social justice or whether to stream a leaked episode or whose turn it is to take out the trash, they can be so awkward in bed. He expected them to be fucking like bunnies, but since Enjolras tends to be too busy and Grantaire tends to be disinterested, the only time they actually do have sex lines up weirdly with Enjolras' T shots. Neither of them complain about any infrequency or cyclical nature, so it works just fine. But despite Courfeyrac's judgment, their sex is fucking fun when they do have it. Even their infrequent angry sex will start off passionate and teeth and once they’ve gotten used to one another’s bodies, there’s marks and angry scratch lines, but they’re both such little shits about it, they’re good at exasperating each other with endorphins till they’re frustration-laughing with empty threats.

After one heated argument at the Musain, because they will always have heated arguments at the Musain until they are old men in wheelchairs, they argue all the way back to the apartment, all the way back up the stairs, and once the door is finally closed Enjolras just pulls him in for a bruising kiss which Grantaire can’t help but reciprocate.

Once Enjolras moves to his neck though, he’s talking again, “The prison-industrial complex is just that, a complex that is complex and your protest isn’t going to draw attention to that, but one tiny issue of it.”

Enjolras bites down hard, shedding clothes as fast as possible, “All the more reason to start small and use grassroots organizing tactics.”

Grantaire groans into it, moving further to the bedroom, “All the easier to squash it once the big businesses get involved.”

They fall back onto the bed because like hell they’re paying attention, both fumbling with buttons and buckles and shoes, “Not if we get the university to take action. Even if it’s mostly symbolic, the brand name support helps. And I don’t think the President is going to let herself be caught saying this isn’t important. She doesn’t want a scandal.”

“So it runs in the paper, then what? Even if the WSJ pays attention and redoes the story, it doesn’t mean it’ll stay in the public’s consciousness long enough to make a difference,” He counters, already palming at Enjolras’ clit.

“The point is to draw attention to the issue to facilitate coalition building, I’m not under any illusion—ahh!—I’m not, fuck, under the illusion that we’ll fix this in one protest,” they’re both just about naked right now, but before Enjolras can even try to blow Grantaire, his head is down between Enjolras’ legs at said clit and he’s gotten really good with his tongue lately.

Enjolras is still trying to make his goddamn point and deliver a speech, but Grantaire’s being really distracting and actually, he can’t decide if he wants to argue or fuck more right now so he multitasks and it’s a great time.

Grantire manages to hook a finger inside his ass though, and he comes apart at the seams at that, in another minute he’s so damn close to coming, he balls his hand into Grantaire’s hair and pulls hard till Grantaire relents and looks up from his ministrations.

Enjolras looks down at him, red-faced and heavy breathing and blown-out pupils with hair wild, a hot mess who is hot in more ways than one, “Don’t make me come in the middle of an MLK Jr. quote.”

Grantaire stares. Then laughs his nude ass off.

So yeah, even when they’re having passionate angry sex they kind of suck at it in the best way possible.

 

Despite concessions and awkward bodies and changing opinions and constant pauses and giggles, they manage to enjoy themselves and their sex is loving in all the ways both of them need to be loved from time to time.

So it might be a really weird full body massage for Grantaire and it might be a bit of dysphoria crisis for Enjolras, but they make it work.

Missing nipple and all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a hot mess I am so sorry omgomgomg


End file.
